


Always One More Time

by boughofawillowtree



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019, M/M, Trust Issues, Wing Grooming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22020079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boughofawillowtree/pseuds/boughofawillowtree
Summary: Aziraphale struggles to accept and understand just how completely Crowley trusts him. When Crowley asks him to watch his plants while he's away, things come to a head.Written for the_pen_is_mightier for the Good Omens Holiday Swap! The prompt/requests were: fluff, angst, domestic fluff, Aziraphale struggles with how much Crowley trusts him.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 291
Collections: Amazing Good Omens, Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	Always One More Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_pen_is_mightier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_pen_is_mightier/gifts).



> I had a great time working on this! I'm sorry it's so late within the swap deadlines, and I really hope you like it! <3
> 
> Title is from the Maya Angelou quote: _“Have enough courage to trust love one more time and always one more time.”_

Crowley had always gone fast. Too fast. Too fast in the Bentley, and before that, too fast on horses - which was why he always ached after a day of riding, though he’d never listen to Aziraphale’s advice on the matter. He’d been fast in the garden; impulsive, acting with no clear plan. Maybe it was the snake in him, quick and darting. Maybe he’d been like that before the Fall, or maybe he had sped up afterwards, trying to outrun another such calamity. 

Aziraphale didn’t know exactly why Crowley went too fast, only that he did. He had thought that finally, this would stop mattering, that he’d finally caught up to Crowley.

It seemed, however, that Crowley was still a few paces ahead of Aziraphale.

Once they fell in together, it seemed that Crowley had fallen a bit harder, or at least faster, than Aziraphale. His walls came down in one great shearing; he laid himself immediately bare. Aziraphale, for his part, still had crumbling piles of stones to flatten, having to move each heavy  weight one at a time; a slow tearing down what had taken so long to build. 

Crowley was here in the bookshop, like he so often was these days, and the rhythm they had fallen into was cozy and domestic in a way that Aziraphale could hardly get enough of. He loved sharing his days with the demon, no longer grabbing shared scraps of time whenever they could find an opportune excuse.

But there were still places in his world he had not been able to invite Crowley into - six thousand years was a long time to spend alone in the way Aziraphale had been until so recently. 

Crowley had come over to help him with some dusting. This type of maintenance was not strictly a requirement in the bookshop, in part because Aziraphale used miracles whenever such chores were necessary, and partly because he had found that a thick layer of dust tended to dissuade humans from poking around for too long. 

Crowley, for his part, had determined to imbue Aziraphale with some of his own values: namely, that of precise and exacting care with one’s possessions. True, Aziraphale cherished his books, but not in the way Crowley looked after his plants, and his Bentley, and every inch of his apartment. According to Crowley, things should be kept in tip-top condition, or else they weren’t worth owning at all.

And so the demon had taken it upon himself to do some aggressive tidying at the bookshop. Aziraphale, initially unsure about such an undertaking, spent most of the morning following Crowley around, fussing at him for handling an old tome too roughly or arguing with him about whether a certain knick-knack did, indeed, need to be disposed of.

Still, it was nice, collaborating with Crowley on a project where they didn’t have to pretend to be working against each other. By lunchtime Aziraphale had settled down and was no longer challenging Crowley’s every move. They moved around the bookshop in tandem, Crowley handing him books to re-shelve, Aziraphale answering questions about his labyrinthine system. The smell of dust hung warm and thick in the air. 

And then Crowley was reaching high up, toward a shelf Aziraphale never let anyone touch - it held precious things, too precious, things Aziraphale only trusted himself to handle. Though he would have  _ said _ Crowley was one half of his own heart, it was still not the same. Crowley was not him, and he was not Crowley, and there were still some untouched places within Aziraphale that he could not yet offer up.

“Don’t - Crowley, stop!” Aziraphale shouted as he saw Crowley’s long fingers heading toward his books.

“Hm?” Crowley turned back toward the angel, frozen in place. His shirt was lifted up by the awkward position, and Aziraphale could see the cream-soft paleness of Crowley’s tummy, flat and smooth like the underbelly of a snake. Crowley was looking at him with mild confusion on his face, but he had obeyed, had listened, had stopped immediately when Aziraphale cried out. He did not touch the books. He did not tease or threaten; he did not argue. 

Aziraphale was awash in feelings.

First, there were the stirrings he felt at the sight of Crowley’s body, so casually exposed. It startled him, to see how undisturbed Crowley was, his arm outstretched, the hem of his black shirt so high above his hips. What must it be like, to be so secure in another’s presence? Aziraphale never let anyone see him like that, not accidentally, not like this. He kept himself carefully wrapped up, and when he did undo the buttons and the cuffs for Crowley, it was all at his own deliberate pace, and with the lights out as often as not. 

And then there was the shame, at shouting, at denying Crowley access to some thing, some part of his world, some affection he held and would not share. The incredible gratitude at how easily Crowley went along, how fully he accepted that if Aziraphale asked it, it must be given; that if Aziraphale said it, it must be true. It was always like this. Crowley giving himself up completely, entirely, over and overly. Aziraphale never felt deserving of it all. He, of all beings, accepted and unquestioned? 

_ What have you done this time?  _

_ We’ll have someone else do it. _

_ Can’t you do anything right? _

_ Just stay out of the way! _

_ Don’t you care about Her plan? _

_ Useless! Pathetic! Imbecile! _

“Angel?”

Aziraphale snapped out of his dark reverie to see Crowley standing at the bookshelf looking at him with mild concern.  “Sorry, love, it’s just that -” Aziraphale suddenly wanted very much to stop with the dusting, and the chores, and the whole project. “- haven’t we been at this long enough? Let’s have a break, shall we?”

Aziraphale reached out toward Crowley and grabbed him by the shirt, tugging him closer. Crowley came along more than willingly, and they tumbled onto the sofa. Aziraphale’s uncommon boldness elicited a grin from Crowley more precious than anything on the shelves. 

Aziraphale let go, feeling something come unwound in him. He had nothing to answer for here, nothing to be mindful of, could let his body’s desires run wild. They only ever ran down one path, familiar enough to feel like home and yet still new enough to light up his skin with excitement. His hands slid up Crowley’s taut abdomen, his mouth found the demon’s neck, his lips, his ears.

Crowley quickly fell pliant under the touches. Aziraphale could listen to those soft gasps and gentle moans all day. They tangled up, all skin and limbs, warmth and safety, a practiced dance imbued with joyful clumsiness. 

“Mmm, angel, if this is how it goes, I’ll come bother your bookshelves more often,” Crowley slurred between tongue-heavy kisses.

“Best not.” Aziraphale tugged on Crowley’s hair just enough to expose the demon’s ear, the sinuous angles of his jaw, so he could kiss and nibble there.

And so the afternoon passed, the two caught up in the thrills of each other, until at last they stilled, hands roving slower and slower over each other, sated and sleepy. Crowley was asleep on the bookshop’s sofa - really sleeping, which was still a marvel to Aziraphale. He had always known the demon slept, but in his own home; surrounded by walls and doors and locks. Now here he was, in an angel’s home, sprawled and unaware.

His chin was turned upwards, exposing the slim column of his neck, the suspension bridge of tendons and muscles, the precious stone of his Adam’s apple. Aziraphale could see the steady, subtle movements of his breaths.

The last time he’d seen a demon’s throat so open was - 

_ No,  _ he told himself,  _ no reason to think on that. _

He took a book from the shelf and sat down to read it; not nestled on the sofa with the dozing Crowley, but in a straight-backed chair near the window. 

The words swam before his eyes, refusing to come into focus.

_ The First War - though, at the time, how could they have known it would be the first of anything? Rebels against the steadfast, the loyal. Aziraphale and his battalion, deaf to the shrieks and screams of their enemies as they fell on the demon factions with glorious resolve.  _

_ The body of a demon, shiny-slick with blood, cut from the sky, killed mid-flight and now plunging downwards, their body an arc, head lolling back toward the ground. And there was Aziraphale, still in the air above the slain soldier, watching as the demon plummeted, holy fire still flickering across their chest.  _

_ He had done that, sliced through with his flaming sword, and he felt nothing but a grim satisfaction at one more down, one less challenge to him and his fellows and their God.  _

Nervous confusion washed over him, and he felt the sudden need to leave the apartment. He set the book down and stepped outside, rubbing his eyes. It wasn’t that he had any intention of harming Crowley. Such desire could not be more absent from his mind. But the  _ possibility _ was so startling, the knowledge that he  _ could _ \- and, more terribly, that at another time he  _ would have _ .

He walked until he found himself standing in front of a library. Aziraphale did not care much for libraries that were not his own - the books too often smelled of new synthetic glues and sticky child-fingers and the insides of polyester bags. And none of them were his, nor could they become his, not that he wanted them.

But home felt too strange right now, and anywhere full of books would be a good enough second best, so he pushed open the heavy glass doors and found a cozy enough spot to read, or pretend to, until he felt settled enough to return home.

He stumbled across a French volume of philosophy, and read for a while about  _ L’Appel du Vide _ \- “call of the void.” Humans felt a strange pull, apparently, when standing on high bridges or towers, to climb over and jump to their deaths. Others had a similar urge to step in front of trains, or otherwise follow an errant impulse into annihilation.

It sounded, in a darkly comforting way, like the odd little whispers his mind offered up, unbidden, about his power, the awful potential in his own hands, the uncomfortable fact that bringing demons to harm was, at one point, his sole drive and purpose. 

He didn’t want to hurt Crowley. Just like the humans in the book didn’t really want to go over the railings. It was just the sudden terror of their own capacity, the ease with which such a thing could be done, that overwhelmed them.

For a moment, Aziraphale considered bringing the book home (they allowed that, temporarily), but decided he didn’t want it anywhere near Crowley. So he took himself home, unburdened, walking the long way round.

Crowley nearly crashed into him on his way out of the bookshop, sunglasses on, Bentley keys jingling from his hand. 

“Oh, hey, angel,” he said, breezily. “Heading to my place - come along?”

“Of course.” It sounded quite nice, riding along with Crowley in control. It used to bother him, the way Crowley drove so recklessly, but after enough uneventful trips, he had learned that Crowley only gave the impression of dangerous driving, and never allowed anything to happen to the car or its passengers.

Crowley’s apartment was all gleaming surfaces and sharp corners. Just like the demon himself. Though he missed the cozy clutter of his own home, Aziraphale had to admit that perhaps Crowley had a point when it came to his style. It was getting easier to see the appeal of the open, sparsely-decorated aesthetic now that he no longer associated it only with Heaven.

Crowley tossed the Bentley keys into a ceramic dish by the door as he sauntered inside. “I’m gonna go make sure all the plants are behaving themselves,” he said. “You’re welcome to come with.”

“Oh, I oughtn’t,” Aziraphale said. “Knowing me, I’d say the wrong thing, or give too sweet a smile, and ruin all your hard work.”

Crowley shrugged. “If you say so. Anyway, make yourself at home, mi casa, su casa, you know the drill.” He headed toward the greenroom, then stopped as if an idea had just occurred to him. “On second thought…”

Crowley turned toward Aziraphale, who was standing in the entryway with his hands folded. The angel was still not very comfortable touching or using anything in Crowley’s home, and usually did his best to remain stiffly polite and come into contact with as few objects as possible anytime he visited. Even the strictest museum docent would be proud of the space he gave everything that belonged to Crowley.

“You seemed to have so many thoughts about how books should be organized - mind getting my library in line?” He waved one gangly arm in the direction of the white, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. “May as well pay me back for all the work I did at yours. Been ages since anyone had a look.”

Aziraphale tried to stammer out some kind of a declination, insisting that he  _ couldn’t possibly  _ and that he was  _ sure Crowley’s system was just fine _ .

“Really, angel, don’t smite me for this, but truth be told they’re mostly just for show.

Aziraphale swallowed dryly, his anxiety spiking at Crowley’s playful reference to smiting.

Crowley continued, “A handful that aren’t, but it’s not what anyone would call a thoughtful collection. Think you’d be doing both of us a favor if you took a crack. Oh, and keep anything you like.”

With that, Crowley disappeared down the narrow, marble-floored hallway to the plant room. Aziraphale stood in front of the bookshelf and stared. There was no way he could touch them. Move them. Books were so personal. He didn’t know what Crowley wanted. What if he offended the demon with his categories, his assumptions? Or what if the aesthetics of the new shelving disappointed Crowley? Aziraphale didn’t understand how Crowley could just leave him alone with carte blanche to tamper with his library.

And what if, Someone forbid, he accidentally damaged one? Surely Crowley had some ancient tomes, and Aziraphale worried that his lack of familiarity with the collection might lead him into a mistake. Finally, Crowley had mentioned that at least a few of his books he owned for personal reasons - what if Aziraphale stumbled across something sensitive, or private, and embarrassed Crowley? 

Paralyzed by the vastness of his deficiencies, Aziraphale fidgeted, glancing back down the hallway where Crowley had gone.

_ “I’m sorry! I’ll do better next time, I promise!” Aziraphale was babbling, he knew, but he never could keep his composure, not at moments like this. _

_ “Maybe there won’t be a next time, sunshine,” Gabriel sneered, then grabbed Aziraphale by the lapels of his Heavenly uniform and started dragging him toward -  _

_ Terror filled Aziraphale as he realized Gabriel’s intended destination. “No, no, please! Give me another chance, I’ll be good!” _

_ Gabriel didn’t listen to Aziraphale’s pleas, only pulling him closer and closer to the Heavenly cliff where the kingdom of the angels ended and an eternal chasm began. No one had gone over the edge in a long, long time - not since all the rebels were sentenced to Fall and tossed down - but it remained, a yawning void, an ever-present threat. _

_ “You know the consequences of failure, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said as he dangled the smaller angel over the edge. _

_ Aziraphale scrambled to keep his footing, scuffing his shoes against the rough cliff, clinging to Gabriel’s hands with his own. “Don’t do this, Gabriel,” he begged through tears. “I didn’t mean to!” _

_ “What’s all this screaming?” _

_ Aziraphale looked toward the source of the voice, and there was Michael, flanked by a handful of her soldiers. _

_ “Please,” Aziraphale said, “please don’t let him -” _

_ Gabriel interrupted his whimpering. “This one just won’t stop making mistakes,” he said, giving Aziraphale a shake that elicited a terrified shriek. “He doesn’t seem to understand that Heaven requires perfection. I was thinking maybe he’d be happier somewhere else, where gross incompetence is more...appropriate.” _

_ “If that’s what you deem necessary,” Michael said dispassionately. “He has received more than his fair share of reprimands.” _

_ Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut. Was this really it? Perhaps he did deserve to Fall. After all, if he couldn’t do anything right, and Heaven was all about righteousness, maybe he didn’t belong here. Maybe it would be better if he wasn’t around to ruin everyone’s efforts to uphold Her Plans.  _

_ But he didn’t want to. He wanted to do right. He wanted to be a good angel. He did his best. But it was never enough. _

_ Aziraphale felt himself flung away from Gabriel, and his soul lurched as he fell through the air. So this was it. He landed after a few seconds with a hard thud, and for a moment he stayed on the ground, tense and confused. He’d heard that Falling was excruciating, and took a bit longer than this. _

_ He opened his eyes to the sound of cruel laughter. There were Gabriel’s prim shoes, and there was Michael, looking down at him with disgust.  _

_ He hadn’t Fallen.  _

_ Gabriel had just thrown him onto the pristine floors of Heaven. Aziraphale, overwhelmed with relief and shame and still disoriented from terror, stayed prone, reaching out toward Gabriel’s feet, babbling apologies, gratitude for another chance, and promises to be better.  _

_ Aziraphale could hear more angels gathering to see the spectacle of the incompetent principality chastised. Humiliation kept him from getting up, unable to face the mocking stares, the stiff judgment. Even after Gabriel sniffed derisively and walked away, Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to rise for a long while, and when he finally did, alone again after his audience had grown tired of watching his trembling form on the ground, he slinked back to his battalion with cheeks burning. _

Aziraphale shook the thought from his head. He wasn’t in Heaven anymore, he reminded himself. No longer crushed under the expectations that had condemned him to eons as a failure.

Now there was only one being whose opinion mattered. And he, for reasons Aziraphale still could not entirely grasp, saw no flaws in the silly angel. Crowley trusted him, assumed the best of him, did not expect to be let down, and never seemed perturbed by any of Aziraphale’s quirks, his weaknesses. 

The weight of Crowley’s faith in him was new, and he did not wear it comfortably. 

Aziraphale forced his attention back to the bookshelf. Crowley had asked him to do something, and however ill-advised it may have been to entrust Aziraphale with the task, he didn’t want to let his demon down. He reached forward and timidly tugged out a slim volume of Mark Twain short stories, which had been inexplicably shelved next to a hardback military history of the Aztec empire. 

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale tried to let himself fall into his project. It was slow going, however, since he spent so much time weighing and second-guessing every choice. He had only moved a handful of books around to sort between fiction and non-fiction when Crowley joined him again. 

“Having fun?”

Aziraphale spun around, startled, a yellowed volume of erotic Etruscan poetry in his hand. “Oh, yes, I, er - well, I’m afraid I haven’t gotten very far, I mean, I wanted to ask you some questions about your opinions regarding -”

“- whatever you’re about to ask me about, I can assure you I have none. No opinions whatsoever. Looks great, though.” 

Crowley beamed at the slightly adjusted shelves, and at Aziraphale. The demon looked as pleased as he ever had been. There wasn’t a hint of condescension anywhere in his voice or posture.

“Thanks, angel, really. You’re so good at stuff like this.”

Aziraphale sputtered the beginnings of a bashful argument, but Crowley interrupted.

“No, really, it looks better already. I’m sure it’ll be easier to find things now. And this place could really use more of…” Crowley paused, as if he had talked himself into a corner and was now fishing for a plausible conclusion to the sentence “...your touch.” 

“Not as much as mine needs yours,” Aziraphale said, relieved to be back on that subject of banter. “How are the plants?”

“Behaving,” Crowley said loudly, “but only just.”

“Glad to hear it,” Aziraphale said.

A beat of silence hung between them, somewhere on the knife’s edge between awkward and companionable. 

Finally, Aziraphale broke the quiet. “Shall we indulge in an early dinner?”

“Always,” Crowley said with a twinkling smile. Aziraphale was ready to be gone from the demon’s austere apartment, and he knew Crowley could never say no to a dinner invitation. Especially not these days.

Dinner was lovely, as always - a dimly lit Japanese restaurant with excellent plum wine and fish as flaky as anything. Aziraphale was in a cozy enough mood after it all that when Crowley suggested they head back to his place, the angel went willingly, his arm wrapped around Crowley as they walked the few blocks back.

Soon they were in the bedroom, the one part of the flat where Aziraphale felt more comfortable. Certainly they had spent enough time in Crowley’s massive bed that he couldn’t afford any qualms about it. Crowley sprawled face down on the plush red sheets, twisting his neck to give Aziraphale a pouty, come-hither look.

“You know,” the demon said, “all this tidying up today has got me thinking...a good thorough cleaning always feels nice, don’t you think?”

He spread his wings out then, making his shirt disappear and laying the glossy black feathers against the bed before wriggling invitingly.

“Oh, you cad,” Aziraphale said with a grin. He climbed onto the bed and gently straddled Crowley’s hips, running his fingers through the soft down. “Why not just ask me for a preening, like a normal person?”

Crowley half rolled over to look teasingly at Aziraphale. “And what part of this strikes you as normal, angel?”

He had a point. And it wasn’t like Aziraphale had any desire to say no. He loved to care for Crowley like this, to touch him so intimately, loved the way Crowley luxuriated in it. “Alright, if you insist.”

Aziraphale started where he always did, at the base of Crowley’s wings, where they met his shoulderblades in a graceful curve, and where the feathers were thick and close-set. The demon kept his wings in such excellent shape that Aziraphale had little true work to do, and was free to simply dote on them, straightening each feather and stroking them with far more sensuality than was strictly required. 

He moved up through the wings, his back bent lovingly over Crowley’s prone form, leaning down to attend to the wings spread flat on the bed as the demon relaxed further and further. 

Finally, down to the tips of Crowley’s wings, where the feathers were long and tapered. Aziraphale took his time, smoothing out each feather individually before tucking them into place. He always finished with a light massage over the muscles below, which elicited delightful moans from Crowley.

Now, here between his fingers, were the most delicate bones in Crowley’s wings, some no thicker than a twig, unprotected under only a thin layer of tightly-stretched, sinewy skin. It occurred to Aziraphale, again in that sinister whisper that humans hear at great heights, that it would take only the slightest application of force, his strong hand pulled into a fist, to snap these little bones and render Crowley unable to fly.

He could. But of course he would not! Aziraphale wanted nothing less on this earth than to hurt his Crowley. And Crowley seemed to believe this, at times even more strongly than Aziraphale himself. Was the demon aware, Aziraphale wondered in horror, of the awful thoughts that reared so often, unbidden, into his mind?

He lifted his hand briefly from Crowley’s wings and flexed his fingers, watching them curl and straighten at his command. Crowley whined softly at the sudden absence of touch, and Aziraphale was again taken by the vulnerability, the easy and defenseless intimacy of Crowley in his arms, under his touch. 

“All done.” Aziraphale leaned back a bit and ran his hands over Crowley’s bare back. He shifted from his position straddling Crowley’s hips so he could lay down beside the demon, who put his wings away with a contented sigh before snuggling into Aziraphale. 

Crowley was always so relaxed after a wing preening that Aziraphale had expected an early bedtime. He dimmed the lights with a small miracle and bundled Crowley under the sheets, wrapping around him with a nuzzling kiss. 

Crowley slept, and Aziraphale held him, letting his mind drift as he listened to the soft rhythms of Crowley’s breaths. Sometimes, he read while Crowley slept, but not tonight. Tonight, Crowley was his book - the parchment of his skin, the fine ink lines of his lips and brows, the solid binding of his spine, nestled snugly against Aziraphale. It was a story Aziraphale could read over and over. 

He was free, as free as he liked, to caress Crowley’s lovely edges with his fingertips. To breathe in the lightly spiced smell of his hair. To sprinkle Crowley’s neck and shoulders with kisses and watch how the demon shifted slightly and made sleepy little noises in response. If he actually needed sleep, Aziraphale would feel guilty for disturbing it, but Crowley never complained of being poorly rested even after Aziraphale spent all night gently playing with him: arranging the demon’s sleep-heavy limbs in various cuddles, tapping the tip of his nose, sliding a finger along his mouth and chin. 

But tonight, Aziraphale was restless. It felt strange, the imbalance between himself and Crowley. Here he was, alert and awake, while Crowley slept, unconscious and unaware. He hardly knew what to do with himself. 

_ Just do what you always do when he sleeps,  _ Aziraphale scolded himself.  _ Why make such a fuss? Clearly he doesn’t mind sleeping while you stay up beside him. _

And it was true, unlike many of the private reassurances he told himself. Crowley didn’t mind. He acted as if it was the most natural thing, melting under Aziraphale’s hands, drifting off to sleep without half a thought toward his own safety, nothing guarded about him.

_ What a strange thing, this love, _ he thought as he brushed his fingers gently through Crowley’s hair.  _ So fragile and yet so enduring _ . 

And it had endured. Endured their millennia of being, or having to play at being, ‘hereditary enemies.’ Endured despite the brutality that lay dormant within Aziraphale, his soldier’s strength, his war-scarred past. Endured through the cowardice that had led Aziraphale to betray Crowley, more than once. 

It would endure this, too, these dark and nervous rumblings that caused Aziraphale to fear, as much as he cherished, Crowley’s moments of adoring surrender.

He would make sure of it.

Aziraphale got out of bed, carefully extricating himself from Crowley, and headed into the library. Nothing Crowley owned made for comfortable all-night reading, but he’d never dream of miracling anything different in the demon’s flat - not even if he put it back the same way before morning. So he settled himself in the straight-backed throne and scanned the shelves for something he might enjoy. 

Aziraphale, glad of the solitude that left him responsible for nothing and no one beyond himself, finished the entirety of a nun’s autobiography that had gone out of print in the fourteenth century before he noticed the sun beginning to make its way into the darkened room. He slipped back into bed with Crowley, snuggling in as if they’d been in bed together all night, and waited for Crowley to wake.

When the sun finally shone brightly enough to wake the demon, he rubbed his eyes and shot a baleful glare at the window. “Thought I closed the curtains,” he mumbled.

“We were rather distracted last night, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale smiled down at Crowley. He was always cranky upon waking, but the best response was to ignore it and stay chipper. “Shall I make us some breakfast?”

“Just coffee for me,” Crowley groaned, sitting up and stretching his long limbs. 

“If you insist.” Aziraphale padded barefoot into the kitchen, finding everything just the way he’d left it after his last time staying the night. The coffee maker, he’d learned, was barely functional by normal means and best managed through the use of miracles rather than actual buttons and levers. He waved in its direction and it obediently started hissing with steam.

Inside the fridge were a variety of breakfast pastries that never went bad and which Crowley kept on hand exclusively for Aziraphale. The angel pulled out a chocolate croissant bordered by perfect little puffs of whipped cream, warming it up with another small miracle. 

Soon Crowley joined him at the kitchen table, hunched over his mug, still blinking the sleep from his eyes.

“This is nice,” Aziraphale said as he swirled a piece of croissant through the whipped cream pooling on the plate.

“You always say that.” Crowley was looking at him with his head slightly tilted - half tease, half question.

Aziraphale dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “Well, it’s true. It is nice.”

“But you always  _ say _ so,” Crowley replied. “Why? Why not just...let it be nice?”

Aziraphale stared at Crowley, having forgotten entirely that he had three perfectly crafted bites of croissant remaining. “What do you mean?”

“Every time we’re spending time together, you always point out that it’s nice. Like you have to remind yourself. Or convince me, or something.”

Aziraphale could feel his cheeks pinking up. “I - I don’t mean it like that, dear.” He reached across the table to take Crowley’s hand, uncharacteristically warm after being wrapped around his coffee mug. “It’s just new. Us being together, like this. And I notice it. How nice it is.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow. “New?” There was a judgment implicit in the single word - six thousand years of time spent together, so many meals shared, and Aziraphale thought this was new?

Aziraphale cleared his throat and looked down at his hands. “Some things are new,” he said quietly.

“I suppose you’re right,” Crowley said over the rim of his coffee mug before pausing to take a sip. “This _ is _ nice.”

***

Aziraphale did not return to Crowley’s apartment for a few weeks after that, which wasn’t unusual. What  _ was _ unusual was Crowley’s suspiciously formal invitation to dinner at his place, and his skittishness as he served Aziraphale a three course meal that appeared to have been conjured from thin air and which all tasted rather similar.

After dinner, Crowley stood up with more ceremony than he typically did anything with, and held out his arm to Aziraphale. “Would you mind coming down to the plant room with me? I want to show you something. And,” he paused, sliding his chair in as if that was suddenly very important, “ask you something. A - a favor, in fact.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale rose and took Crowley’s arm, deeply curious about what had the demon acting so uncharacteristically. 

The plant room was humid, softly lit, and lush with greenery that would make the Kew Gardens hang their leaves in shame. 

“So this is the plant room,” Crowley said, despite the fact that Aziraphale had been there many times, and even if he hadn’t, that information was so obvious as to not need pointing out.

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied. 

They stood there for a second before Crowley appeared to get ahold of himself and straightened his shoulders.

“Alright, then.” He picked up the plant mister and twirled it once. “This is the mister - each plant gets a certain number of sprays per day, and it’s all written, er -” Crowley cast around the room for something, then furrowed his brow. He snapped his fingers and a complex chart detailing each plant’s watering schedule appeared on the wall. “Right there.”

Aziraphale looked at the chart, his mind reeling. “Yes, you certainly take good care of them.”

“Right, so.” Crowley poked his finger into the soil of one pot. “Most of them, I try to keep a little damp. Not too soggy, not dried out. The chart will say which ones should be wetter or drier.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale leaned over to look into the pot, but was entirely uninterested in touching the dirt.

“Misting goes either on the leaves, or the dirt.” Crowley demonstrated, spraying some water into one pot, then lifting the bottle to squirt some leaves. “Makes a difference, where you spray.”

“I see.” Aziraphale kept both hands in his pockets, not knowing which plants were hardy enough to touch, and which were too delicate. 

“Here, you try.” Crowley held the green plastic mister out toward Aziraphale.

“Oh, I - I really couldn’t,” Aziraphale demurred.

“Actually, angel,” Crowley said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I was hoping to ask you - the favor, you know - I need to pop to America for a week or so. Would it be any trouble for you to look after my plants?”

Cold terror seized Aziraphale. Him? Take care of the plants? In Crowley’s absence? Absurd. Unthinkable. Crowley adored his plants more than anything in the universe - he wouldn’t tolerate any imperfection. Any mistakes. Any failure.

“What is it you need in America?” Aziraphale tried to keep the pout out of his voice.

“Demon convention. Little get together in San Francisco to celebrate all those entrepreneurial young men making apps that steal your data and ruin the world.”

Aziraphale had no idea what any of that was, and he didn’t care. All he knew was that he did not want Crowley going on this trip, and he was even less okay with the proposition of Crowley leaving the plants in his care.

“A demon convention? And you were...invited?”

Crowley laughed. “Not in the slightest.”

Aziraphale cocked his head in confusion.

“Just want to go see how the old gang is getting along, hopefully throw a wrench or two in the gears.” Crowley shrugged. “I miss a good spot of mischief making, and it seems only fair that they be on the receiving end after all this.”

“I don’t like it,” Aziraphale said. “You know what they tried to do to you, last time around. It’s not safe.”

Crowley threw his arms up. “I’ll be fine, angel. But will you watch the plants?”

Aziraphale couldn’t say no. But he couldn’t say yes, either. He loved Crowley too much to do either. 

“Er,” he started. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

Crowley arched an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t it be wise?”

“It’s just that - well, aren’t there humans you can hire to do this sort of thing?”

Crowley dropped the mister on the floor, where it thudded loudly and rolled in a looping circle. “A  _ human? _ In my apartment? Are you daft?”

Aziraphale would have happily admitted to being daft, if that would convince Crowley. Yes, a human would be much better. Because if some hired human let Crowley down, if that human failed to give Crowley everything he deserved, well, so be it. Humans were allowed to screw up - expected, even. So Crowley wouldn’t be devastated when the inevitable happened.

And the human would be fine. They wouldn’t have to live with millennia of heartbreak as the consequences of their actions. Crowley would curse them with a few years of inconveniences, and everyone could move on.

“I’m just not sure it ought to be me,” he said, looking down at the mister on the floor. 

“Well who the hell else would it be?” Crowley sounded angry now - hurt, even. It broke Aziraphale’s heart.

“I don’t know the first thing about plants,” Aziraphale tried. 

“It’s all on the wall,” Crowley said, exasperatedly pointing toward his miracled chart. “Come on, Aziraphale.”

“I can’t,” Aziraphale pleaded, wringing his hands, wishing Crowley would understand, would stop expecting things of him that he - soft, weak Aziraphale, with a history of failures longer than his lost sword - could not provide. 

“It’s fine if you don’t want to,” Crowley sneered, stalking out of the room.

Aziraphale hurried after him. “Crowley, wait!”

The demon was in the kitchen, cleaning his coffee mug out with far more vigor than necessary.

“Crowley, please. I’m sorry, I want to do this for you, it’s just that-”

“No, I get it, angel,” Crowley said, not looking up from his scrubbing. “It’s too much work, especially for a small business owner like yourself. Not worth your time.”

Aziraphale fought to keep tears from spilling over. “That’s not it at all, love.” 

“Sure it isn’t.” The mug was entirely clean by now, but Crowley continued to hold it under the hot water and attack it furiously with a sponge.

“I just…” Aziraphale watched Crowley’s hands work, wanting more than anything to take them, hold them, still them. “It’s a lot to ask.”

Crowley spun around at that, hurt and anger in his eyes. “It didn’t seem like too big of a favor to ask of my...my  _ best friend _ . Clearly I was wrong.”

Aziraphale swallowed and tugged at his collar. He didn’t intend to say what he said next, but the question blurted itself out before he could stop it. “Why do you place so much trust in me?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes, looking suspicious and offended. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

Aziraphale could no longer keep his crying at bay. He pressed the back of his wrists to his eyes, trying to compose himself, but it was no use. Whatever he had to say, he was going to have to say through tears.

“Because...” Once he started, the words just tumbled out. “Because I’ve hurt you, and let you down, so many times. Because I chose Heaven over you, more than once. Because I’m a soldier, and I’ve - I’ve done things. Bad things. Because I’m soft, and weak-willed, and - and - and I mess up everything I do, and I’m worried I’ll mess this up too.” 

Aziraphale had to stop for a sniffle and another wipe of his eyes before continuing. “I always let people down. And I don’t - I couldn’t - I just couldn’t take it, if you finally saw me the way everyone always does. Truth be told, I don’t understand how you haven’t already. I worry, I worry all the time, about...about not being good enough for you. Not being what you deserve.”

Aziraphale finally finished, breathing heavy after his painful monologue. He was half sure Crowley would leave right then. God had turned Her back on him, Heaven had given up on him, and Aziraphale dreaded the inevitable day when Crowley, clever as he was, would realize that this was the best course of action as well.

Crowley did not leave. Instead, he strode over to where Aziraphale stood, three easy strides, drying his hands on his shirt as he did so. 

“Oh, angel,” he murmured, drawing Aziraphale in to a tight embrace. Aziraphale, startled, kept his arms stiffly at his side for a moment before leaning into the hug. 

Crowley stroked Aziraphale’s hair soothingly as the angel cried, then led them out of the kitchen and onto the black leather sofa. Aziraphale followed limply, letting himself be led.

Crowley held him like that until his crying subsided into hiccups and shaky breaths. 

“Is that why you didn’t want to? You were worried you’d let me down, somehow?”

“I’d hate for you to decide,” Aziraphale mumbled, “that your trust in me has been misplaced.”

“Because you didn’t water my plants correctly?”

Aziraphale rubbed his eyes. “Your plants, Crowley...they mean so much to you, and I just couldn’t stand it if I were the one who...who…”

“Sshhh,” Crowley soothed. “Sure I like my plants, but compared to you, they’re nothing. Did you really think I’d toss you aside if you let one of my plants go a bit yellow?”

When Crowley put it like that, in his playful tone, it sounded so silly. All Aziraphale could do in response was give Crowley a watery smile.

Crowley brushed a tear from Aziraphale’s cheek. “You’re everything I need, angel, and nothing I don’t. Honest.”

“I’m sure She thought the same when putting me in charge of guarding the Garden, as did Heaven when issuing me a flaming sword.” Aziraphale sighed. “I never seem able to meet expectations. And yours are so high. You think so much of me, and I’m not sure I’ll ever measure up.”

Crowley stiffened beside him. “Aziraphale,” he said, taking the angel’s chin to turn his head and make eye contact. “I’m not Her, and I’m not Heaven. My love...it’s not conditional. I don’t  _ think _ you’re perfect. I  _ know _ you are. That’s the difference.”

“I don’t understand.”

Crowley stroked one hand through Aziraphale’s hair. “I don’t love you for what you do, angel. I don’t love you because I think you’ll never let me down. I love you...and that’s it. Nothing else matters.”

Aziraphale rolled Crowley’s words around in his mind. They made sense, but something within him refused to believe them. 

“I know who you are, angel. You know I’ve had enough time to learn.”

Aziraphale, who had until now been holding himself at a slight distance from Crowley, now fell into him, resting his head on the demon’s chest. “I’m just...scared.”

_ Scared you’ll change your mind about me. Scared you’ll finally see who and what I really am. Scared that one day I’ll slip up and show how truly unworthy I am of your trust. Scared.  _

Crowley turned his head to kiss the crown of Aziraphale’s head. “Makes sense, after everything. But you don’t ever have to be afraid. Not with me. I promise.”

Aziraphale made a little sound of skepticism, even as he snuggled closer to Crowley.

“I know, sweet,” Crowley whispered. “I’m sorry. How about this - you come with me to America, and we’ll leave the plants on their own. They can handle themselves for a week or so.”

“Really?”

Crowley kissed Aziraphale again, holding him tightly. “Absolutely.”

Aziraphale could feel the tension evaporate from within him. It must have been obvious, because he heard Crowley hum contentedly at the way Aziraphale relaxed. 

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale offered after a short length of contented silence, “I could help you.”

“Hm?”

“With some of the mischief. In America. I could do some, for you. With you.”

Crowley tousled Aziraphale’s hair, grinning down at him. 

“I’d like that.”


End file.
